"Can I go up and see him, sir?" John asked.
"In a minute or two. Your mother'll call for you when he's ready. I'm afraid there's not much hope, William!" the doctor said.
John leant against the mantel-shelf, waiting to hear more. He listened in a dazed way to what the doctor was saying, but hardly comprehended it, for in his mind the words, "I'm afraid there's not much hope!" made echoes and re-echoes. Uncle Matthew was dying, might, in a little while, be dead. Dear, simple, honest, kindly Uncle Matthew who had loved literature and good faith too well, and had suffered for his simple loyalty.
"He's easier now than he was," the doctor continued, "and he may last a good while ... and he may not. I think he'll last a while yet, but he might die before the morning. I want you to be prepared for the worst. You know where to find me if you want me, William!"
"Yes, doctor!"
"I've left him in good hands. Your mother's a great nurse, John," he said, turning to the boy.
"Can I go up to him now, doctor?"
"Yes, I think perhaps ... oh, yes, I think you may. But go up quietly, will you, in case he's dozed off!..."
John did not wait to hear any more, but, walking on tiptoe, went up the stairs to his uncle's room.
Uncle Matthew turned to greet him as he entered the room.